


Hashtag Molotov

by VanillaIsNotPlain



Series: Hashtag Viktors (Do) Love Yuuris [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Beach Episode, Ending Credit Photos, F/M, Fem!Yuuri, Festivals, Fireworks, Friendship, Humor, VictUuri, Victuuri kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 07:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11732052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaIsNotPlain/pseuds/VanillaIsNotPlain
Summary: Viktor has a fun idea, Yuuri goes along for the ride, and Yuri does too, but kicking and hissing. Or, the obligatory beach episode. Or, another story of how the photos in the ending credits took place. Fem!Yuuri





	Hashtag Molotov

**Author's Note:**

> This is also on FanFiction dot Net, and is an attempt to cover the snapshots in the ending credits of the show that depict the main trinity of the cast. Let’s see if it works! (I know they’re wearing different clothes from picture to picture so they wouldn’t have all taken place in the same day, and I changed the time of day of at least one of them, but needs must).  
> I don't own Sailor Moon or Indiana Jones. I don’t know the protocol for using fireworks, so this story doesn’t accurately represent that. Good kids don’t play with fireworks irresponsibly, or without the supervision of an adult, and definitely don’t juggle lit fireworks.  
> Recommended to read after chapter #Makeover in ‘Viktors Don’t Love Yuuris’ if you want to read that story, though you definitely don't need to (This takes place somewhere in the middle of it), but really the main thing to know is that Yuuri is a girl here!

\- When Yuri was training with Viktor and Yuuri in Hasetsu before Onsen on Ice -

"I have a fun idea," announced Viktor.

Yuri, Yuurika, and Viktor were lounging in the onsen after a long hard day of practice. Stretches done, Viktor had offered to brush Yuurika's unruly hair. He knelt at the side of the pool, running a comb rhythmically through her short tangled locks away from her face. It felt comforting, soothing - ASMR, almost - sending a tingle from the crown of her head to the tips of her toasty toes. She basked in the heat, losing herself to enjoying his ministrations. Unfortunately (how it always went with Yuurika) Viktor was a little less controlled when excited, such as when he had a fun idea. His comb encountered a small snag; instead of gently teasing it away, he ripped right through.

"Ow," protested Yuurika.

Viktor winced in sympathy. "Sorry."

"No," Yuri responded flatly to his previous statement.

Viktor looked hurt. "But you haven't even heard what it is yet!"

"I don't need to to know that it will bring me pain and misery," Yuri retorted. He had years of experience to back him up on this.

“I just thought you both deserved a break. I heard there’s a local festival going on by the beachfront tomorrow, and thought we should all go together and make a day of it,” Viktor spilled.

“Oh, yes, I forgot about that! We should go!” Yuurika was completely on board with the plan.

“Yuri?” prompted Viktor.

Yuri was distracted by a rustling in a nearby bush. Was that a shutter snap? Nah, probably his imagination. “What?”

“Great, it’s settled!” Viktor clapped twice to settle the matter. “We’ll meet to leave after breakfast.”

The bush rustled in agreement.

(T minus twenty-four hundred)

"Hey, Mari-neechan," Yuurika called, entering the kitchen later. She didn't have to search long; she ran into her a moment later. Literally. "Aaah!" She unconsciously raised her arms to protect herself from the impact.

"Aaah!" echoed her older sister. She reflexively raised her cleaning spray and fired.

"Gyaa!" Yuurika shielded her eyes.

"Sorry, I thought it was off. The nozzle says 'NO'." Mari squinted at the offending article.

"I think that's supposed to be 'ON'," Yuurika offered.

"Oh, right." Mari lowered the spray. "Well, what's up?"

"Viktor's planning a small outing." Yuurika explained the plan, closing with, "Wanna join us?"

"Naw, that's okay," Mari declined. "I was planning on going already with some friends in town." This was true; it was also true that she wouldn't have wanted to go with the trio much anyway. She didn't want to be that awkward fourth training wheel. And she wasn't a skating junkie like the rest of them; she still had no idea what a flying Biellmann sit-spin was. "I know Mom and Dad are going in the evening with Minako-san; I think the Nishigoris are going as a family too. Maybe we'll all meet up later and head back together. And also, if you're going the whole day, why don't I pack a light lunch for you? You can eat it at the beach and save up for the food stalls at the festival later."

"That's okay nee-chan, you shouldn't go through the trouble," Yuurika oozed fear of causing inconvenience through her pores.

Mari sighed. As her nee-chan, she'd seen this side of her imouto far too often. On the flip side, she also knew just the way to handle it. "Are you ashamed to eat the lunches I make then? You think Viktor and Yuri wouldn't like it?" She prodded mercilessly.

"No, we all love your cooking! Everyone loves the food you make!" Yuurika protested energetically, all earlier reluctance dissipated.

Mari nodded fiercely. "Good. Then you'll take the bentos I pack on your daytrip."

"Yes, yes of course! Thank you, Nee-chan," Yuurika beamed at her older sister, slipping back to the common rooms and her waiting teammates.

(T-minus twelve hundred)

“I’m glad pets are allowed on the train,” said Viktor the next morning, petting a leashed Makkachin fondly from his seat on the Shinkansen.

“I don’t think they are, actually,” Yuurika corrected. “We’re just lucky that it’s not crowded right now and the attendants didn’t notice or say anything.”

Their car was nearly empty - save for the three of them, there were only two little old ladies in large sunglasses and enveloping headscarves, sitting quietly and knitting at the far end.

“Makkachin and I are are ambassadors of love and peace wherever we go,” Viktor excused his rulebreaking grandly.

“If by love you mean sappiness and peace inanity, then yes, you are the top,” Yuri agreed.

“Don't rag on Makkachin!” reproved Viktor, wrapping his arms around his pet protectively.

“Yeah, don't rag on Makkachin!” echoed Yuurika. She considered adding ‘and Viktor,’ but decided that was an indefensible position.

Makkachin just licked Yuri's hand; he at least appreciated the joke.

“I think you two need some bonding time to better appreciate him,” Viktor decided, handing Makkachin’s leash to the moody teen.

“I’m not responsible for your dog,” Yuri protested, dropping the handle like it would drool on him.

Viktor merely tied the leash in a loop around Yuri’s waist. “You are now.”

Makkachin stared at his new fellow leashmate adoringly.

Yuri scoffed, scooted further away from his tormentors, and continued mashing buttons on his 3DS.

“Nevermind _him_ ,” Viktor dismissed. “Why don’t you tell me what the festival’s like, Yuuri?”

Yuurika hugged her bento-stuffed backpack, babbling on and on about sizzling fried food, and cheerful patterned yukata with clacking geta, and raucous game stalls, and clear high points for viewing bright explosions of colour across the night sky afterwards. Viktor let all the words wash over him, sitting and relaxing to the sound of her warm voice, leaning forwards facing her with his elbows propped on his knees and his hands folded in front of him. They eventually lapsed into a comfortable silence, only broken by the flash and click of the little old ladies’ knitting needles (Did knitting needles really sound like that?).

Further into their journey, as Yuri remained absorbed in his handheld and Yuurika gazed pensively at the rushing city-to-landscape through the thick plastic glazing, Viktor began scrolling through his newsfeed. He stopped on a set of photos uploaded by Minako of all people, tagged with the handle of a very familiar teen.

“Yuri, why does this black cat next to you have a golden crescent on its forehead?”

The addressed boy reluctantly paused his game. “What, old man? Are you seeing things?” He stomped towards Viktor, thrown at first by the rhythmic rolling of the room-on-rails and his short leash to Makkachin. Regaining his balance and rousing Makkachin from his snoozing at his feet, Yuri picked his way over to his temporary coach. “What the… oh, I remember that. Kinda.”

“So,” Yuurika, joining in from across the aisle by viewing the Instagram post upside-down, tried to broach the topic delicately. “Is it… normal for that many stray cats to flock to you?”

“Yeah, pretty normal,” Yuri replied askance. ‘That doesn’t happen to you?’ was left unspoken.

“When did this happen?” Viktor asked, disappointment in missing out written on his features.

Yuri shrugged. “Uh, a couple days ago I think?”

Flashback to a couple days ago Yuri thinks -

Yuri had jogged to Ice Castle Hasetsu before the two idiots (that girl was terrible at punctuality in the mornings), looking forward to sneaking in an extra half hour of morning practice. He arrived at the doors, barely winded, and tugged on them impatiently - but was denied access. He glanced at his phone’s clock display - darn, he was too early. He wandered to a nearby bench in the dim pre-sunrise glow and tapped around on his phone a bit, then settled down for a quick catnap.

After swiftly sinking into a dreamless slumber, Yuri was irritated to half-awareness by the sensation of someone adjusting something in his hair. Was Mila putting curlers on him again? Foggy-brained, Yuri tried to wave her away. “Lay off, hag,” he whined. He relaxed one eyelid into a slit opening. This wasn’t Mila - not the one he knew anyway. Was it Mila from the future? Her hair, longer than present Mila’s, was brownish shot through with glowing crimson in the sunrise; she still possessed the same slim figure and diminutive stature. He couldn’t make out all of her features in the backlighting, but “You look more ancient than Viktor. How old are you anyway?!” Yuri mumbled aloud, discombobulated.

He heard rather than felt a ringing slap across his still sleep-numbed face, and footsteps running off into the distance. Yuri lifted one hand to rub his now-stinging cheek and mussed hair, dislodging two scrunchies with large round red gems, and shifted in his lap a shiny pink plastic stick with a yellow sliver-moon and transparent orb on one end. He stared at the items in drowsy torpor. Was this loot? Did he sleep-raid a dungeon again? How many AP or DP did they carry? Oh well, he thought, snuggling further into the comfortingly familiar purring warmth surrounding him and shutting his eyes. Whatever the case, it could all wait until proper morning.

End flashback -

“I’m surprised Minako-sensei recovered those accessories after we hid them all those years ago,” Yuurika marveled. “Yuuko said she'd never find them behind all the studio cleaning supplies.”

“I’m reposting this,” Viktor announced.

“Me too.” Yuurika reached for her phone and opened the app. “Hashtag: Yuri Plisetsky, Pretty Soldier Skater Moon.”

Yuri yowled and lunged to intercept them, but was tangled in the leash and tackled to the floor by the poodle defense.

(T minus ten hundred thirty)

Their first stop at the beach was the changing booths. There was no line; even the two tiny grandmas from the Shinkansen had wandered off in an opposing direction upon departing the station. When the three skaters reunited outside the booths, after taking turns holding onto Makkachin, their only witnesses were an harmless elderly (and also short) couple barely discernable under the shade of their sun parasols, puttering about on a walk along the shoreline.

The trio wore pretty much what you'd expect. Viktor sported short black swim shorts slung low about his hips, hugging the safe side of decency, but still managing to showcase his perfectly sculpted abs and... stuff (Yuurika began to deeply regret not paying more attention in biology and anatomy class - she hadn’t noticed before, but were all muscles supposed to look that good? She suddenly developed slight sympathy for Viktor's previously professed antagonism towards the onsen’s copious amounts of concealing steam).

Yuri wore leopard print trunks, glaring at them to just dare to make something of it. No one batted an eye.

And Yuurika -

“I knew it,” said Viktor with barely-concealed disgust.

“What?” asked Yuurika innocently. “It still fits fine, doesn't it?” She squinted at it through her contacts, plucking at the stretchy fabric self-consciously.

“Is that your bust size?” Yuri asked, tilting his head at the ‘1-A’ tag stitched to the upper left section of the chest.

Yuurika coldly ignored Yuri’s disparaging question.

“Of course you'd wear your high school swimsuit,” Viktor sighed.

“Well, it's not like I had much freedom to swim in Detroit,” she retorted. “And I've been wearing this in the onsen for stretching sessions this whole time.”

“Yes, exactly! This was your opportunity to branch out,” Viktor revealed post de facto.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “And it flew right past you. As usual.” Not that he cared or anything.

"Oh, I see you found Viktor, young man,” a hauntingly familiar voice interrupted. Yuri swiveled - it was that direction-dispensing NPC from when he first came to Hasetsu from Russia! “Good afternoon, Yuuri-chan! Good afternoon, Viktor! I'm surprised to not see Yuuri-kun with you," the smiling gentleman continued politely.

"I'm right here," prompted Yuri.

"No, he means the other Yuuri," Viktor explained.

"You mean this Yuuri?" Yuri gestured to the other Yuuri.

"That's not Yuuri," the NPC refuted, adjusted his spectacles. "She's wearing a school girl's uniform swimsuit. Yuuri-kun wears swimming trunks."

“Woof!” Makkachin had strong feelings about this piece of Yuuri news.

"No, Yuuri does not wear swimming trunks!" the referenced Yuuri disavowed vehemently.

"Photos or Yuuri in trunks didn't happen," Viktor interjected quickly.

"This is hella confusing," opined Yuri.

"Well, I'd best be getting along on my walk. Goodbye for now, Viktor, Yuuri-chan, ... young man." The elderly gentleman meandered peacefully on his way out of raising chaos in their lives.

The other venerable couple again crossed the three’s path in their unhurried search for prime beach estate, elevating their phone and tapping and swiping hesitantly every so often.

(T minus nine hundred thirty)

“Thank you,” Yuurika told the young helper at the suika stall. The diminutive girl with the large floppy hat overshadowing her features gravely handed her a gleaming round fruit. “I’ve got it!” Yuurika called, jogging back to her compatriots from a nearby vendor stall, bearing the heavy burden with both arms.

“What kind of ball is that?” Yuri asked doubtfully. He wasn’t sure he - Yuurika! He meant Yuurika - possessed the strength to throw it properly.

“This isn’t a ball - it’s a watermelon. For splitting,” Yuurika explained, eager to share the national summer pastime.

“Oh good, I don’t think any of us could manage to eat an entire watermelon. Except maybe you,” Viktor commented insensitively.

Yuurika decided magnanimously not to argue the point. “Not the sharing sort of splitting. Well, not exactly anyway. Come on, I’ll show you!” She led them towards the shallow edge of the waterline, plunked down the ripe green prize (Makkachin sniffed at it excitedly with wet shallow huffs), and retrieved a nearby smooth stick of driftwood along with a faded bandana from her pack. “We’ll tie a blindfold around your eyes, spin you three times, and then call directions towards the watermelon. When you think you’re within range, you strike.” She pantomimed the motion with a downward slash. “The one who finally breaks it opens wins!”

“Ladies first,” Viktor gestured with a flourish.

“Oh no, youngest first,” Yuurika corrected, handing the sturdy stick to Yuri (who for the first time she could recall in her experience of handing him things that weren’t edible didn’t immediately throw it back or drop it like it was coated in acid). “And then eld- I mean those with the most gold medals next. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to play this game.”

Yuri failed to protest as Yuurika snugly tied the bandana over his upper face and Viktor spun him enthusiastically (a bit too; only Yuri’s plus ten skating agility spared him a mouthful of sand). He gripped his stick tightly. Finally. After days of Viktor-prescribed training at temple upon temple, being teased with rock gardens to plow destructively through and bells to thump and instead only receiving soft slaps for lapsed concentration, he was at last presented with the opportunity to hit something. Violently, even. He took slow shuffling steps, following the hyper voices of his temporary rinkmates, biding his time for the kill.

As he faced down the watermelon, both Yuurika and Viktor crowded in, phone cameras poised and ready, waiting to capture Yuri’s epic fail (He was actually about half a meter from an ideal swing, though they didn’t tell him that). Even Makkachin bounded closer, pouncing playfully.

Yuri anchored his feet firmly in the shifting sands, raising his makeshift katana above his head, gathering chi for his ultimate blow. With a guttural yell, he darted forwards and swung down in a clean arc, the full force of the impact landing right on the top sweet spot of the thick rind (Neither Viktor nor Yuurika knew the full fury of the pent-up teenager’s emotions, nor that his main in that one MMORPG’s stats included plus five sword damage and bonus extended melee range).

To the astonishment of everyone watching (including those at the watermelon stand, who should have been old hands at this), the slain victim promptly exploded, raining fruity guts everywhere.

The three skaters just stood frozen with gaping, dripping red faces and bodies. Makkachin’s little pink tongue worked overtime, first on his own face (all that was within reach) and then on his human’s and human’s friends’ ankles (Good thing it was one of those seedless watermelons).

“I win?” Yuri guessed, still blindfolded.

“I guess no watermelon splitting for you, Viktor,” Yuurika apologized.

“While I enjoy fruit, this is absolutely gross. You’re washing Makkachin, Yuri,” Viktor complained.

“What?” Yuri complained at the high-handed command.

“You spewed it, you clean up the mess,” Viktor reasoned irritably.

“He’s _your_ dog. And _she’s_ the one who started this game anyway,” Yuri protested, pointing to his Japanese host. “You’re just jealous that you can’t beat me.”

“We’ll never know now,” Yuurika mediated. “And we all need to wash off, not just Makkachin. There’s some outdoor showers this way.”

After getting Yuri and Makkachin settled in one shower (It was difficult to discern who exactly was washing whom - the fluffy poodle had taken as great a liking to watermelon as he had to everything else he had encountered in Japan so far), Viktor and Yuurika faced each other around another tall faucet. Viktor at first shielded himself reflexively from the sudden cold onslaught, but soon they both began scrubbing themselves of the sticky residue and slimy seeds.

Yuurika glanced up suddenly. “Oh, you missed one.” Without hesitation, she reached out her hand and enveloped it in Viktor’s silky-soft silver hair, running through it twice before successfully removing a small light seed.

Viktor smirked at her. “You too.” He extended both his hands and rubbed the top of her head fiercely, causing her to duck and splutter in amusement, before he swiped at her cheek with a finger, wiping off a slim intact fiber of watermelon and placing it, finger and all, inside his mouth.

Yuurika gaped at him breathlessly.

“Waste not,” Viktor excused his unconventional table manners with a daringly flippant shrug.

Yuurika just grinned in response. “You’ve got plenty left on yourself before you go stealing mine! Wash yourself off properly!” She began rendering assistance with the assigned task by ruffling through his dripping locks with both of her own hands, allowing the water to rinse away the translucent pink shavings.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. “Speak for yourself!” His hands returned to her own damp dark waves, rubbing in slow circles like an attentive stylist at a salon, before crashing down in a noogie.They dissolved into soft helpless giggles and low chuckles, supported by their arms resting on the crowns of the other’s heads.

The watermelon stand girl, though quite closely situated to the entire scene and happening to face their direction the entire time, must have found it rather dull as she remained completely absorbed in her upraised phone, callously tapping on the screen at all the best moments.

(T minus eight hundred)

“I think we should eat lunch,” Viktor decided suddenly after they were dried off and changed back into their street clothes.

Yuurika wordlessly fetched her backpack and handed out the stored bentos (and opened a package of dog food for Makkachin).

A small-statured gentleman with an impeccable handlebar mustache sat nearby with his appropriately sized wife, facing them while sharing a newspaper.

Everyone stared at the beautifully presented victuals in cute and colourful bite-sized shapes, lamenting the fact that they’d have to render them unrecognizable through the necessary (and tasty) process of mastication (Yes, even Yuri was filled with remorse; Mari’s lunches were just that good). Their rumbling stomachs crescendoed as they gave thanks for the food, took up their utensils and prepared to transport the deliciousness to their watering mouths. There was a small catch though.

“Why do we all have two plastic knives and no forks or spoons?” Yuri asked.

“Mari-neechan…” Yuurika sighed resignedly. “She must have been tired; I should have helped pack. Oh well.” She dexterously flipped both her utensils in her fingers and maneuvered them like chopsticks, deftly grasping and consuming a cherry tomato.

Viktor watched her necessity-birthed ingenuity in rapt delight. “How wasabi!”

Yuurika dug through the depths of her bag. “Sorry, I don’t think I brought any.”

“What?” Viktor cocked his head, confused at her reaction to his compliment to her heritage’s aesthetic.

Yuri ignored him in favour of copying Yuurika’s solution. The octopus wiener squeezed tightly between his knife-sticks popped out and shot him in the eye. “Typical.”

Makkachin considerately retrieved the sand-coated sausage and disposed of it down his throat.

The below height-average woman and man payed the lunching group no mind and still gazed at their newspaper (though it appeared to have a small hole right beneath the headline).

(T minus five hundred thirty)

“Let’s go there next!” Viktor grabbed Yuurika’s arm, steering her towards the shooting booth.

Yuurika dodged two young girls in bright animal masks running across her path holding water balloons on stretchy bands. “Uh, sure, we can start there.” She led the three of them through the crowded clamour of the festival aisles to the hawker calling out to passersby.

After a brief explanation of the game, Viktor shelled out the required yen and lifted the butt of the cap-gun to his shoulder. He inhaled, sighted his target through his un-fringe-blocked eye, took aim, and fired.

Makkachin woofed in admiration as the hit item tumbled behind the display with a loud thump.

“Wow! Viktor, you bagged the grand prize!” Yuurika clapped her hands in glee.

“What, that thing?” Viktor peered at the newly empty slot.

“That small dark ugly-mug statue?” Yuri blurted, eyeing the aforementioned object now being presented to the victor.

The booth manager’s hands gripped the behatted smiling creature a little more strongly at the Russian punk’s disparaging description. “This tanuki carving has been sought after for years at this festival. It’s rumoured to bring good luck to local businesses,” he explained in decent English.

Viktor promptly handed the statue to Yuurika. “In that case, do you think your parents would like it?”

“Would they? They’d be thrilled!” Yuurika placed it carefully in her bag. “But are you sure?”

“Of course,” Viktor confirmed gallantly.

Yuurika just shook her head, out of incredulity rather than denial. “I can’t believe you got the grand prize on your first try.”

Viktor lifted the muzzle of the cap gun vertically before his lips and blew on it nonchalantly. “Well, I am a world-class prodigy,” he demurred modestly (He didn't mention he'd been aiming for the puppy keychain two rows and six columns away).

"Show-off," scoffed Yuri, already turning to the next booth.

Yuurika hurried to rejoin him, Makkachin prancing alongside. “Oh, did you want to goldfish scoop, Yuri?”

Yuri, along with a just-arrived curious Viktor, looked over the ample pool of water in the middle of the tent. “Is that what this is?”

“Yes. You try to scoop as many goldfish as you can into one of those bags until the time runs out.”

“Great. I’ll beat both of you.” Yuri hunched over the basin, fish-scooping paws - I mean hands - poised at the ready.

“That’s not how it works. You have to use those.” Yuurika nodded towards the paper-lined wire paddles held by the booth attendent.

“Won’t those fall apart in the water? Who could scoop up anything with those?” Viktor reasoned aloud.

“People with mad skillz.”

“So, not you,” Yuri translated.

Yuurika hung her head sadly. “Yeah.”

One the girls in a blush-pink piggy mask who’d nearly collided with the group earlier attempted to hurry into the line behind them, but was cut off by a loud chattering gaggle of highschoolers. She expressed her irritation with a sharp “Tch.”

(T minus two hundred forty-five)

“Thank you for your order!”

The vendor beamed as his smaller assistant silently handed two matcha ice cream cones to Viktor.

Yuurika stared at the frost-glistening swirled treat.

“Here you are!” Viktor reached over her and handed one of his purchases to Yuri.

Yuurika reached for the remaining cone. “Didn’t you want one, Viktor?”

The addressed individual lifted it out of her reach with a frustratingly long arm. “I do. This one.” He lowered the ice cream just enough to close his lips over the very tip (smugly, in her opinion).

The denied girl froze, regarding him in mute betrayal.

“You’re on a diet, remember?” Yuri reminded her helpfully between darting swipes of his tongue all over the fast-melting surface of his own dessert. “And we just had ramen.”

Yuurika just stood there pitifully, drool appearing at the corner of her open mouth.

Viktor’s icy heart thawed a few degrees. “I intended to save it for when you win at competitions, but… you did meet your BMI goal, and it’s a special occasion.” He held out his barely touched ice cream. “Here. Just one lick.”

Like a starving raptor, Yuurika lunged forward and chomped off the entire top half of Viktor’s cone.

Viktor jerked back in surprise. “Careful! You’ll get -”

Yuurika scrunched up her melty sweet cream-bedecked nose in the throes of brainfreeze.

Viktor wished she hadn't done that - he had to physically hold back his index finger to prevent himself from booping it.

“Sorry,” Yuurika mumbled through her stuffed face. “Reflex.”

Yuri glared, shielding his own cone from the ravaging threat with his body.

“I’ll make it up to you. There’s a local sake that’s really good just up ahead,” Yuurika placated her ripped-off coach.

“Sure, thanks,” Viktor agreed absently, nibbling at his ice cream and pondering how to delicately point out the green-tinged tip of her nose.

“Wipe your face. You look like an idiot. Well, more of one than usual,” Yuri informed her politely.

Yuurika obliged, then ordered the promised drink for Viktor.

The Japanese-enthralled Russian quickly forgot his stolen dessert in favour of admiring the faint swirling amber of the specialty brew in the clear round glass. He spun around in delight, narrowly avoiding showering a passerby with his drink. “Take a picture for me, Yuuri!”

“Sure, sure,” Yuurika placated, accepted the phone he eagerly thrust at her. “Okay… smile!” She snapped the photo as he posed with his signature heart-shaped grin, button-down shirtsleeves rolled up and hair tussled playfully by the breeze. “Make sure it turned out,” she instructed, handing back his device.

Viktor’s face lit up at the result. “Looks great! Did you take two?” He swiped further in his stored photos.

“No, just the one,” Yuurika answered honestly, preparing herself to be drafted into another round of photographer duty only to disappoint (It’s a widely-accepted axiom of picture-taking that subsequent snapshots will never capture the full candor and charm of the first).

“Oh, okay; I just thought I heard a second shutter sound. It must have been my imagination.” Viktor opened up his Instagram app and began uploading the photo. "What is this place called?" he asked his impromptu tour guide.

"What's the Japanese word for hell?" Yuri mumbled grumpily from her other side, ice cream long consumed, shaking out his foot after yet another sugar-rushed kid ran over it. He hadn’t wanted to bring it up, but he did not particularly enjoy being in heavy crowds. It gave him unpleasant flashbacks to certain incidents in the midst of his Angels.

"Naraku," Yuurika codeswitched automatically, bland voice barely carrying over the hubbub.

"Nakasu," Viktor stuck out his tongue as he typed the location tag aloud. Almost, but not quite (It led to a few interesting questions later from a concerned Hiroko what exactly a Russian coach, a minor, and her daughter had been doing wandering about in the gloaming of the historical red-light district over fifty kilometers away from where they had been cavorting the rest of the day, and how). “Do you want any?” He held his drink out to the gifter.

“Just a sip,” Yuurika caved. She knew from experience just one wouldn’t hurt her, and that (unlike with her greatest weakness earlier) she could limit herself.

The child at the ice cream booth just across the aisle continued clacking away at her device on the sales counter.

(T minus two hundred)

“What’s this song?” Viktor asked his companions, drink still held in his hand (He detested having to rush).

They had returned to the long stretch of beach they had visited earlier, lazing about until the advent of darkness and the anticipated fireworks. It was still relatively isolated, save for again a dwarfish couple strolling along. Was it the same one as before? No, it couldn’t be; the husband this time clearly sported a walrus mustache.

“I think it’s a new song by Dean Fujioka,” Yuurika discerned after listening to the piped broadcast.

"' _Can you hear, my heart beat_?' Bum-bu-bu-bum," Viktor sang along carelessly, placing his glass in the sand and pirouetting around Makkachin. The excitable poodle capered about his human, woofing at the appropriate bits and padding his large paws on the shore, raising clouds of sand. It sent the merry pair into fits of delicate rapid sneezes (Who knew the elegant skater could even sneeze in style? Yuurika, in contrast, had had her own compared to gunshots). They settled down into a sitting position facing each other, Viktor lifting Makkachin’s front paws playfully in time to the beat. “‘ _You set my heart on fire_ ’!”

“What do we do until it gets dark?” Yuri kicked the sand, searching half-heartedly for shells.

“Bored, Yuri?” Viktor shot up, rushing his younger rinkmate. Yuri backed away out of habit, leading Viktor to close the created distance. This looped until it transformed into a low-key chase.

As Makkichin panted at her side, Yuurika watched them cavorting across the pristine beachfront shoreline. It was almost romantic: a couple running in slow motion, kicking up picturesque surf, the steady rumbling chortles of the pursuer trailing behind them (if you could ignore the pursued's customary tinkling chime of dainty laughter being substituted out for piercing yowls and jarring screeches). She began to feel left out.

On their way back, Viktor noticed. “Come on, you too, Yuuri! Can’t have you missing out on a chance to exercise, even if it’s an off day!” He began playfully chasing her, a teasing grin plastered across his face.

Yuurika couldn’t help but turn and get caught up in the game, laughing as Viktor threatened to catch her. It wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, but it would do (if she could just ignore the cheerfully shouted promises of laps along the waterline should she slow enough to be tagged).

The promenading couple stood snapping photos of the golden sunset over the ocean, discreetly ignoring the crazy youngsters speeding into each frame.

(T minus thirty)

“We bought the fireworks!” Yuurika plodded across the beach with Yuri in tow, both bearing the mentioned articles in their arms. Making a slight detour to avoid a mother and daughter lounging on an oversized beach towel in the gathering gloom viewing a movie on a portable device (most likely reserving a viewing spot for forthcoming friends and relations), the pair dumped their cargo in a small heap before Viktor and Makkachin.

“Are they all the same kind?” Viktor asked, squatting down to inspect the similar looking papered packages. Makkachin peered at them curiously from where he was tied at a safe distance away.

“Sorry, all they had left were sparklers.” Yuurika nudged the pile with her foot. “Have either of you done this before?”

Both Russian humans shook their head. The Russian dog cocked his head at her quizzically.

“Well, there’s not much to it really.” Yuurika briefly listed some safety precautions. “Basically, don’t burn yourself. Or anybody else.”

“Yeah, old man. Don’t burn anybody.” Yuri picked up two sparklers and began unwrapping them.

Viktor placed a firework and a hand over his wounded (elderly) heart. “Speak for yourself. And don’t get burnt by my amazing sparkler skills.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes fiercely. “You’re on.”

Yuurika cleared her throat to regain their attention. “Okay, let’s light them up.” They all bent down and touched their sparklers to the fire Yuurika had lit for the purpose. Makkachin barked in surprise as four glowing and spitting pinpricks of light hissed in the gloom.

Yuri flinched a bit at the noise, holding one hand to cover his ear.

“It sounds just like an angry kitty. Who does that remind me of?” Viktor smirked at the younger boy, twirling a sputtering stick above his head.

“Hey, careful!” Yuurika called out worriedly.

“Not a cat,” Yuri spat shortly, rushing past Viktor with both fire-bearing arms outstretched. He was thinking of a different hissing animal, one that both he and cats disliked.

“Don’t like snakes?” Viktor threw back at him, spinning sapphire sparks about.

Yuurika lit a second sparkler and pranced along behind Yuri at a safe distance, trails of emerald and topaz iridescence following his twin amethyst streaks. “Like Indy?” she queried with hopeful interest. A long time ago before the copious Viktor Nikiforov posters, in a bedroom not so far away, there was Harrison Ford. What could she say? She liked what she liked.

“No!”

Viktor just cavorted behind them with his own additional firework, grinning at their antics.

Yuri had enough of the teasing. “Let’s have a competition!”

“Another one?” Yuurika groaned.

“I’ll judge!” Viktor offered with alacrity.

“You too again!?”

The two males ignored her. “I’ll go first!” With that pronouncement, Yuri reached in the purchased pile and pulled out a third sparkler. He held it to one of his already lit ones, then flipped it in the air and sent the other two up in quick succession.

Yuurika, her own sparklers held limply at her sides, watched openmouthed as Yuri juggled. “What the… I thought he hadn’t played with sparklers before! Isn’t that dangerous?”

Viktor shrugged. “There’s a lot about himself he doesn’t tell everyone.” He clapped slowly. “I guess juggling flaming objects is one of them.”

Yuurika stared mesmerized by the spinning lights rising and falling rhythmically between the teenager’s deft hand flicks. “Well, when you put it that way…” She added her own applause, which was joined by Makkachin’s whine of appreciation.

All too soon, Yuri caught all three sticks by the cool ends and drove them deep in the sand. Eschewing the traditional showman’s concluding bow, he stalked back towards his audience. “Your turn,” he announced.

Yuurika walked forward slowly. The sip of alcohol she imbibed earlier was starting to finally kick in, boosting her latent competitive spirit. She couldn’t match Yuri’s technical score, she realized; the only choice was to pad her presentation points. She could think of only one way to do that.

“I learned this from Minako-sensei, but I’ve never done it with fireworks before.” Yuurika confided.

Viktor just retrieved his glass of liquor from the sand nearby (it definitely wasn’t cold anymore, but that didn’t bother him) and smiled silently in anticipation. Minako taught dance, right? Maybe she was going to perform a traditional Japanese dance, inspired by the local festival?

The old woman and daughter on the beach towel behind him continued silently viewing their movie on their tablet (Should the flashes of light really have spurted out of the _back_?).

As the public speakers staticked to life with a new song, Yuurika leapt.

Viktor’s jaw dropped.

“Do you know this song? The vocalist sounds kinda familiar somehow,” Yuri asked, frowning.

“I’m not sure,” Viktor admitted.

This dance was ballet - he now recalled that was Minako’s main genre, and what Yuurika had learnt from her in her formative years - and ballet wasn’t all that distinct from ice skating choreography. But this performance was different. He’d noticed how Yuurika’s style seemed to route the music through her body and movements, making it part of her before releasing it to the audience’s ears, enhancing and amplifying it. It was what made her routines stand out in her career. But the media of the ice, while transforming the ballet motions, also inherently limited the usable range. There were some things that just weren’t feasible on the low-friction stage.

But in the sand… Yuurika unleashed them. Her leaps floated longer, her legs and arms extended further, more daringly. There was something beyond that too, as if a certain boundary that had always been present in her performances was being blurred and gradually erased. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it; it revealed itself as some sort of playful, wanton grace to the bend of her wrists and the tilt of her neck, as the lowering of her lashes as she lost herself to the rush of her flight, uncaring for the stares of her audience (It was also the first time that Viktor had ever seen her perform with the combination of no glasses and ungelled hair, but he wouldn’t realize that until much later, and wonder why he never insisted that she always perform that way - but always find something deep inside himself stopping him from suggesting it). Viktor didn’t describe it that way to himself, but he was witnessing Yuurika finally behave in a manner that was truly feminine (as well as the slightest touch loosened by liquor).

“‘ _You’re so beautiful tonight_ ’,” Viktor whispered beneath his breath along with the lyrics. Viktor resolved to send Minako a case of whatever he was holding in gratitude for enabling this sight.

There were so many memorable moments of that dance on the seashore - the arch of Yuurika’s spine and thrown-back arms as she jumped skyward in a swallow’s soar; the secret satisfied smile stealing across her face as she bent horizontal with her black V-neck stretched taut across her shoulders, as if taking off to skate across the sands; the slow ripple of her hair smoothed away from her face as she closed her eyes and traced glimmering faery paths with her flaring wands; the uncalculated angles she presented to her audience as if they were privileged witnesses to a performance she put on solely for herself. But there was one sight that etched itself irrevocably in his memory

As she twirled towards him at the peak of a jump, her half-lidded molten irises pierced right through him and beyond, to a place, a time _a person_ no one else could see. As Viktor stared, entranced by the rose dusting her low cheekbones and the hazy breath escaping from her parted lips, he thought he would have gladly given an entire hutch-full of his gold-plated championship medals to know just what _who_ she saw in that moment. For the first time, he understood what his audience had always claimed to experience at his own performances: he wished Yuurika could remain forever in his memory as she was now, suspended in ecstasy, that her helium feet would never be coerced by cruel gravity to return to the mundane earth from which they had so gloriously broken free _that he'd never have to forsake the fantasy that that penetrating, smouldering look was meant for him and only him_. But also like his devoted fans, he blinked once, and the enrapturing vision departed from him. He cursed his nerveless hand that had tapped his phone camera a moment too late for burst mode.

He sang the four word title of the playing song lowly. _How appropriate_ , he thought, lamenting his lost opportunity.

He settled himself in preparation for the conclusion, phone and glass still held loosely and forgotten. Yuurika exited a spin and glided into a pirouette, finally lowering her spitting sparklers to take a final bow. She was prevented from doing so by a sudden beach ball to the face. Over the apologizing yells of the nearby group of festival-attendees, Yuurika gasped, and began falling towards the fire they’d started for igniting the sparklers.

Viktor and Yuri both leapt up immediately in alarm as Makkachin yipped in agitation. Yuri shouted and jumped forwards to intercept, but Viktor barrelled him out of the way and rushed to cradle Yuurika, falling with her while twisting to the side to avoid the flames. It was all over in an instant. But in that same instant, something else entirely also happened.

As Viktor curled around Yuurika protectively, eyes squeezed closed tightly, his face drew close to hers, and as he breathed a desperate plea for her safety, his open lips met her own, still parted in surprise. As he clutched her closer in anticipation of the shock of impact, their mouths melded together, each feeling the foreign yet comforting pliant warmth of the other.

Though this was Yuurika’s first such encounter, and not so much for Viktor, both separately experienced for the first time the exact same ensuing sensation.

Their hearts seemed to sputter to a stop and contract into nothingness, replaced by a dull piercing ache deep within their chests. Adrenaline coursed hot as molten gold through their veins. Each nerve ending buzzed and sparked like live wires, sending imperceptible twitches across the skin on both their bodies. They never felt more aware nor more incapable of further movement.

The landed in the sand beside the dying embers, Viktor on top of Yuurika, still with his arms wrapped around her. With his eyes still closed and Yuurika’s wide open in shock, they remained motionless, waiting for their hearts to resume beating.

Instead, they exploded.

Or maybe that was just Viktor’s glass, still filled with alcohol, that spilled over the fire.

(T minus zero)

At precisely 9 PM, bursts of colour bloomed across the night sky, accompanied by the dull _pop-ssss_ _crack_ of the detonations, like a conference of very angry stenographers. They weren’t quite loud enough to mask the simultaneous _Boom!_ and canine howling from the vicinity of the beach.

"What's that?" asked Minako from a nearby hill, startled.

Toshiya grunted. "Probably some juvenile delinquents mucking about again."

"There's an awful lot of cursing," Hiroko noted with disapproval. "At least, I think it's cursing. I can't quite make out the words. I don't think it's Japanese."

"Crazy foreigners," Minako grumbled. She took a swig from her bottle as ending punctuation.

"Oh, come now, sempai. You can't generalize like that. Just think of Viktor, such a perfect gentleman, and now Yuri. He's such a sweet boy, traveling all the way here because he was worried about his own sempai," Hiroko admonished.

"I'm not really convinced that's the entire story," her husband admitted. "He keeps kicking Viktor under the table when you aren't looking."

"I'm just bummed that there wasn't a cosplay contest this year," Minako switched topics abruptly.

“You can’t bully Yuurika and Yuuko into dressing up as Pretty Soldiers forever, sempai,” Hiroko broke gently.

“Hey, everyone!” Yuuko jogged up with husband Takeshi in tow. “Have you seen the girls? We let them go together on ahead of us before we closed the rink, since they said they’d arranged to tag along with Yuurika; they were supposed to meet us here.”

“Here we are, Mom,” the aforementioned triplets of doom chorused, materializing in the gloom.

“Have you had a good time?” their father asked.

The three shared a conspiratorial look. “Yes, yes we did.”

“I wish we could have gotten that last shot, though,” Axel noted in a softer voice.

“We can probably get the same result if we add explosion effects with the software,” Lutz commented.

"Did you get the part right before that??" Loop asked the important questions in life.

"You mean The Kiss? Yes, but it didn't turn out well; Viktor's arm was in the way,” Lutz reported regretfully.

"Drat." Axel succinctly summarized their simultaneous thoughts.

Yuuko frowned. "What's in that bag you're carrying?"

"Oh, nothing," the trio chorused, setting the large bundle off to the side nonchalantly.

Their mother eyed a small package that rolled out of it. "Is that a set of fake mustaches?"

Her incorrigible daughters huddled together, whispering fiercely under cover of scatter cries of “Tamaya!” on surrounding hillsides. "How are we going to even post what we took already? If we upload it from our account, they'll know we were stalking them this whole time," Axel pointed out. "We might have not thought this one through."

"We'll just sneak them onto Viktor's phone. He's the most likely to share them without thinking about where they came from," Lutz solved the dilemma. "We'll upload the one from the onsen ourselves though, I don't think even Viktor would fail to notice that one being odd."

"But didn't he change his phone password since the last time we hacked into it?"

"Yeah, but I saw what he changed it to when he thought I wasn't there anymore," Loop whispered. "It's Yuuri's birth year now."

"I don't know what that is," confessed Axel.

"It's also the year Mom was born," Lutz supplied helpfully.

"Great, but I don't know what year _that_ is either."

"It's the first year that Viktor competed in ice skating, and adopted his first poodle."

"Oh, I do know those! Thanks, Loop!"

"I'm Lutz, not Loop."

"Sorry. We're just so identical, I get ourselves confused sometimes."

"Psych, I've been Loop all along!" Loop revealed triumphantly.

Axel covered her face in exasperation. "Gosh darn it, girls."

They were interrupted by the sight of three disheveled figures trudging tiredly up the hill, with a fourth supporting the middle one and a fifth on all fours bringing up the flagging rear.

“Oh, there you all are!” Hiroko waved at the group cheerfully. “Did you enjoy the festival?”

“Yes,” the four chorused dutifully.

“Some of us a bit too much, I think,” Mari huffed, wiping away some stray soot from her little sister’s face.

“Yeah,” Yuurika agreed absently. She wasn’t really listening; she was wondering if what she had thought happened actually did, and if so, if Viktor had felt the same thing she had.

“Not at all,” Viktor responded, unhearing, clutching his dog’s leash and brushing sand and ash out of his hair in a preoccupied manner. He was thinking the exact same thing as Yuurika. Mind far away, he winced as a few crispy silver strands came loose in his hand.

Makkachin growled softly to contribute his opinion on the day’s events.

“But who won?” Yuri asked (again. He’d been asking for a while now, but had yet to receive a response), shifting Yuurika’s battered and slightly charred backpack over his bony shoulder.

“If there had been a cosplay contest and I had my way, you could’ve,” Minako told him seriously.

“I thought you were still mad at me?” Yuri frowned at her.

Minako mirrored his expression. “Oh right.”

“I think,” Toshiya concluded as the fireworks overhead faded from sight, “That we’ve all had quite a day and it’s high time we headed home.”

The motley crew trooped towards the station and boarded the Shinkansen. They were forced to split up due to the crowds traveling the same way. Viktor, Yuri, Yuurika, Mari and Makkachin ended up boarding the second car together.

They all settled in and rode in silence, the train zipping through the night punctuated by the scattered bright points still lit along the tracks. Mari played a few games on her phone to pass the time. She finally tired of it and decided to engage in conversation. “So, what was your favourite part?” she prompted as the closed the app. She looked up, and quickly hushed to observe the rare sight that met her gaze.

Viktor, Yuurika, and Yuri were fast asleep in the last row of the car, both boys leaning their tired heads on the girl between them, and Makkachin’s furry face resting in her lap with his eyes closed, snuffling contentedly. As the three were seated in order of descending height, Yuurika’s own head was slightly tilted to rest on Viktor’s shoulder (which was only slightly more comfortable than Yuri’s head, which would have been her other option had she favoured the other direction). They were breathing peacefully, their exhausted faces relaxed and worry-free. Best of all, all three bore soft smiles (even Yuri, which Mari thought she’d never get to witness). She hoped that they were all sharing a pleasant dream from the past day.

Mari quickly and silently unlocked her phone, maneuvering swiftly to the camera app. After double-checking she’d set it to silent mode, she captured several pictures, then scrolled through them to select the best of the bunch. She saved it to her special folder, the one she kept full of all her favourite family photos. Opening it for editing, she picked out a frame, and then double-tapped to edit the caption to display in it.

She stared out into the night outside the windows and thought for a few moments, and decided on one of her favourite English phrases, the one from that song that was just getting popular now (She thought she had heard it playing on the air just before the fireworks started).

Mari looked back down at her phone and typed, “You Only Live Once.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please visit me at [vanillaisnotplain on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vanillaisnotplain) to squeal over the adorableness that is the Yuri on Ice the Musical, and other YoI things!


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